


Past Where the Sails Divide

by scheherazade



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Feelings and General Idiocy, Fluff, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Meet me in Sydney</i>, Brett had said, and for a moment Eoin forgot that the English language contains such a word as "no".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Where the Sails Divide

**Author's Note:**

> One day [ikabarra](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/ikabarra) showed me [this photo](https://twitter.com/BrettLee_58/status/445683538726100992/photo/1). And then there was road trip fic. Title from ["Leeward Side" by Josh Pyke](http://youtu.be/LUemKLtbHxk).

"Bowler envy," says Graeme with a sagely nod. "It's like the batsman's version of penis envy."

Eoin jams another pair of socks into his duffel bag. "That's not a real thing."

"Just remember, Morgs, you are a strong independent man who don't need no ball to complete him."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Sure, sure." Graeme unfolds himself from Eoin's armchair and saunters toward the door. "Enjoy your country getaway. And if you ever want tips—"

Eoin shuts the door in his face. 

"If you want tips," Graeme yells from the corridor, "I'm here for you! It's all about the wrist, remember. Wrist action!"

His face feels hot. Eoin scowls at the empty room. He's never telling anyone anything again. He's never letting anyone anywhere near him again, come to think of it, because he'd been having a perfectly normal Saturday evening before Graeme waltzed into his hotel room and asked why he was panicking. For the record, Eoin was _not_ panicking. He'd simply been packing. For a road trip. With Brett.

 _Meet me in Sydney,_ Brett had said, and for a moment Eoin forgot that the English language contains such a word as "no". 

The more he thinks about it, the more he hates himself. Dolphins and coasts and migrating whales. Flocks of penguins, artisan towns. National parks. _Nature_. Eoin is not a nature person. Eoin is not Dale Steyn, who would probably jump at the chance to go cavorting across the Australian countryside with Brett Lee in his new 4WD. Brett should have asked him instead.

No, Eoin is not jealous. And no, Eoin definitely does not have "bowler envy", whatever the hell that even means.

What's a person supposed to bring on a road trip anyway? Christ.

Half an hour later, Steve pokes his head into the room to find Eoin checking the expiration date on a bottle of motion sickness medication.

"Er," says Steve. "You all packed, then?"

"Almost," Eoin mutters. 

Steve shuffles into the room. "Which one did you want me to take back for you?"

"The suitcase." Eoin gestures toward the doorway where it's resting. "And my gear, if you could."

"Yeah, of course." Steve pokes at Eoin's duffel bag. Something goes _clang_. He lifts the corner of a parka and finds...a frying pan? There's also a stress ball, a travel mug, four towels, and what looks like a miniature chemist's inventory. Most of Eoin's clothes are still unpacked, lying in piles on his bed. 

Steve gathers an armful of t-shirts and tucks them into the duffel. "So...looking forward to your getaway?"

Eoin has moved on to counting the change in his wallet. "If I survive it."

Steve takes advantage of the jangling coins to swiftly remove the frying pan. He sticks it under the bed. "That sounds a bit grim."

There's no answer. Steve keeps packing. When he looks up again, Eoin's holding an old jumper in one hand and a navy-blue cardigan in the other. He looks genuinely conflicted.

"Mate," Steve says, "it's nearly summer. In Australia."

"Still gets cold at night," Eoin replies defensively.

"Take the jumper then."

"It's a bit... _casual_."

Steve coughs to avoid laughing in his best friend's face. "Well, right. That's why it's good for, y'know. Casual times. When it gets cold at night or in the desert or — where are you going anyway?"

"No idea."

"...You don't know?"

Eoin scowls at the jumper like somehow it's the cable-knit pattern's fault. "Every Australian town sounds like a character from some Dr. Seuss book. He just calls up out of nowhere and decides we're going on a road trip. So that's what we're doing." Eoin stuffs the jumper into his bag.

The clock ticks.

"Wow," says Steve at length.

Eoin looks at him. "What?"

"Nothing." Steve pats the duffel bag. "Just, y'know. Have fun."

 

* * *

 

Brett is there at the airport, leaning casually against his car. The Landcruiser is so new its tinted windows gleam obsidian in the Australian sun. It's a soft white, same shade as Brett's linen shirt. Top two buttons undone, sunglasses perched atop his head. He's smiling like a magazine ad.

"Hi," Eoin says after a second too long.

Brett takes his bag for him and opens the passenger door. "Hi."

He drives them to his house. The car is more comfortable than Eoin expected, plenty of leg room and a gorgeous sound system. They'll leave in the morning, Brett says. Not too early, because a good night's sleep is mandatory. Energy, fun, and an appetite for adventure are the best things one can bring along on a road trip. 

Eoin somehow manages to keep a straight face. "So I'm sleeping on the sofa then?"

Brett runs a yellow light, his smile faltering just a fraction. "Well," he begins, "There's a guest room, if you want. You don't have to. You know, if you think you can't sleep well with another person, I know a lot of people can't, it's a real thing—"

"Brett," Eoin feels his own lips twitching, "I'll sleep wherever you want."

"Oh." Brett's expression clears like a summer dawn. Turns playful. "I mean, the sofa's always an option."

"Only if you want to wake up with a sore neck."

"You calling me old?" 

Eoin grins. "If the shoe fits."

 

* * *

 

In the morning, he's the one with a sore neck. Brett rubs his shoulders for him. It feels good, the pillow soft under his cheek and sheets smelling of Brett's shampoo. Sunlight slants white-gold through the windows. 

Calloused fingers come to rest at the nape of his neck, squeezing gently. Possessive. Protective.

"Coffee?" Brett asks. Eoin nods.

Brett hums while he makes them breakfast. Eoin looks at the map spread out on the dining room table, little towns and roads circled in blue, sometimes accentuated with a smiley face. 

The first day takes them along miles and miles of coastal road, the ocean bright under a jewel-blue sky. Brett rolls the windows down. The sun climbs as they drive ever south, exchanging blue for rolling hills. Eoin keeps hold of the map, because a certain someone doesn't believe in mixing nature with SatNav. Not that it matters. Brett knows these roads so well, he could drive them blindfolded. 

Eoin leans his arm out the window and feels the summer flowing by.

They stop for lunch just outside Gerroa. Eoin argues that the side of a scenic road does not a legal parking spot make. Brett just tells him to bring the sandwiches. He walks ahead; Eoin follows.

The trees give way to rocky cliff, the cliff to sand, and sand to sea. Waves crash over a beach extending as far as the eye can see, and it's only when Brett tugs lightly on his hand that Eoin realizes he's been staring for a good minute. 

"This all right?"

Eoin nods. Parking regulations are arbitrary, anyway. 

They eat in the shade, the view spreading panoramic beyond. Brett points to specks in the distance to illustrate his stories about surfing, fishing, past holidays and future hopes. There's a grass stain on Eoin's jeans when he finally stands up. Brett brushes away bits of dirt for him.

Afternoon goes at the same leisurely pace. Eoin picks the music, and Brett takes them on a detour past Berry, through Kangaroo Valley. Eoin rolls his eyes. 

"You know why people make stereotypes about Aussies?"

"Because people are bigoted and uncritical?"

"Because you bring it on yourselves."

Brett grins. "If the shoe fits."

They cross the Shoalhaven River at dusk. Evening settles like a dampener. It's quieter than Eoin's used to, after so many cities and airports and traffic jams. A sign reads: _Welcome to Nowra_. The little inn Brett picks out is sleepy with lamplight. 

Eoin stands at the window with its wooden shutters and wonders if it's possible to feel homesick for a place that isn't home.

He hears Brett pad barefoot across the room. Smells soap and clean terrycloth. Leans into it when Brett hugs him from behind, nuzzles at the stubble on Eoin's jaw. 

"How was your day?"

"You were with me the whole time."

Brett props his chin on Eoin's shoulder. "And?"

Eoin traces the shape of the shutters with his eyes. It's unlikely anyone can see them, with the lights so low and the window so high. "It was good," he says. "Better than expected."

He feels more than hears Brett snort. "Rousing endorsement."

"Only been a day." Their reflections are dim in the window panes. "You got time to raise your score."

Brett smiles. "In that case." He steps back, draws Eoin toward him, face to face. The walls are thick. The door is locked. 

Eoin goes.

 

* * *

 

"Dolphins or kayaking?" Brett asks the next morning. 

The bedside clock reads 6:28, and Eoin groans. "Option C, stop being a freak of nature and come back to bed."

"I do that and we're never leaving this place." Sunlight streams into the room; Brett's thrown the shutters open. He comes back and sits on the edge of the bed. Eoin tries unsuccessfully to pull him down. Brett catches his flailing arm, traces a line from his elbow to his wrist. "Come on. We can get coffee on the way."

"I'm not swimming with dolphins. Dolphins are sexual predators."

"Kayaking it is."

They drive down to Jervis Bay. Past Huskisson, past Vincentia, Brett signals left on Booderee for Hyams Beach. The sand is so white Eoin has to squint just to look at it. Brett takes off his sandals and walks along the water's edge. White foam laps at his ankles with every incoming wave. 

Eoin folds his socks inside his trainers. He wiggles his toes. The sand feels warm, smooth. It sifts through his fingers like pixie dust. 

A cold splash nearly makes him fall on his ass. He straightens, looks around to see Brett laughing, caught wet-handed. 

"Water's great," Brett says, half-teasing, half-daring.

Eoin chases him into the shallows. Brett runs zig-zags, kicking up water and whooping like a child. Eoin grabs his shirt and tugs, meaning to upend him into the water whose praises he's so keen to sing. An ill-timed wave unsettles his footing. They both go down.

Brett comes up shaking his head like a dog. Eoin scrubs saltwater from his eyes; Brett brushes droplets off the tip of his nose. "Hope your sunblock's waterproof."

Eoin flicks water at him in lieu of a verbal reply.

His shoes are filling up with sand by the time Eoin locates them again. The walk back to the car dries his clothes. They follow the curve of the bay toward Murrays Beach, where Brett hires a sea kayak, then makes Eoin put on more sunblock.

"Here, let me." He takes the bottle from Eoin. His big hands slip under the collar of Eoin's t-shirt, over his shoulder blades and back. The lotion warms under his touch. If Brett lingers just a second too long over a spot on his neck, Eoin doesn't comment.

The tips of his ears feel hot. 

"I assume you know how to operate this thing," Eoin says once they're actually in the kayak. 

Brett chuckles. "You won't drown, I promise."

 _That's reassuring,_ Eoin doesn't voice out loud. The morning breeze has faded to a whisper. The sea stretches level toward the horizon, and Brett paddles strong and sure behind him. The oar feels clumsy in his hands. 

They stay close to shore. Rocky outcrops jut into the waves, flanked by shimmering sand.

His arms start to tire. It's hard to tell how long it's been. The sun is an unchanging blindness in the sky. "Should we head back?" Eoin ventures.

Brett turns them around without another word. 

The clock in the car reads 12:35 when they get back. Brett digs out a water bottle, hands it to Eoin. "How you feeling?"

Eoin sucks down half the water before answering. "Better now." He presses the cool plastic to his face. "Think I'm getting sunburnt anyway."

Brett's hand replaces plastic, stroking carefully over salt-lashed skin. "Rest for a bit."

He starts the engine. Eoin watches the bay slip away in the rear-view mirror. The combination of AC and swaying motion makes his eyelids suddenly heavy. He nods off to Brett humming under his breath. It sounds like Oasis.

 

* * *

 

In Batemans Bay, their second-story window opens toward a beachside promenade. Colored lights and live music interrupt the dark. It's not what Eoin would call a dancing tune, but Brett catches his hand and draws him into some bastardized version of swing. 

"You're an idiot," Eoin informs him. Brett smiles like it's the best thing he's ever heard.

Brett taps his fingers on the wheel in time to whatever song's playing on the radio. He hums snippets of tunes heard hours ago, in kitschy cafes and lonely gas stations on the road. Melodies mark every mile disappearing with asphalt beneath tires rolling on.

In Central Tilba, Eoin learns more about woodworking than he ever wanted to know. Bowls and candelabra and life-like lizard figurines. Brett stops to talk to a craftsman working on a clock. Eoin checks his own wristwatch.

"Meet you back at the car?" he suggests. Brett nods, well distracted by all the little wheels and cogs.

Eoin wanders around, passing his hand over wind chimes and rustic flutes. He can't think of any stringed instruments native to Australia. Eventually he gives up and asks. The shopkeeper points him toward the back.

He's nearly fallen asleep in the passenger seat by the time Brett finally returns. The slam of the car door makes him start.

"Hey," Brett begins, then pauses when he sees the curved case sitting on the floor. Eoin slowly cranks his seat upright. Brett looks at him, looks back down. Looks at him again. "Is that...?"

"Couldn't find a guitar," Eoin says. "And you already have one, so."

Brett finally picks up the case. Opens it. The ukulele looks ridiculously small in his hands. Eoin has only a split second to contemplate that, though, as a blinding smile breaks across Brett's face. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and deepens the contours of his mouth.

"Thank you," Brett says, after he's kissed Eoin to within an inch of frustration. "It's perfect."

They take the scenic route down to Eden. Eoin thinks it's a bit hubristic, if not outright heretical, for a town to pose as paradise on earth. Brett laughs at him, says it's named for a family, not religion.

The sun is gold in the west when Brett pulls up to a high bluff overlooking the harbor town. A wooden fence cautions against the steep incline. Eoin leans against a post. Brett perches on the top rung, looking east over the Tasman Sea. He cradles the ukulele in the crook of his arm.

"You know how to play it?" Eoin asks. 

Brett carefully turns the pegs, strums across the strings. The sound is clear and sweet. He plucks a few notes, and the familiar chord progression makes Eoin duck his head. 

" _Going back to the corner,_ " Brett hums, " _where I first saw you._ "

It should be ridiculous, Eoin thinks, how easy he makes it look. As if sitting atop a seaside cliff in the sunset singing along to a ukulele were an everyday occurrence in the life of Brett Lee. Not that anyone would put it past him.

" _Got some words on cardboard, got your picture in my hand. Saying, 'if you see my love can you tell him where I am?'_ "

"That's not how it goes," Eoin points out.

Brett plucks away at the strings, smiling. "I like my version better."

And Eoin — can't think of a good response to that. Whatever that means. He watches the horizon turn indigo dark and listens to Brett play on.

 

* * *

 

The inn in Eden is actually something straight out of the Victorian Era. All the rooms are _named_ , for god's sake. Oil paintings adorn the walls around a four-poster bed; an adjoining room holds a round table and two spindly chairs. Eoin pulls back the long curtains to reveal a perfect view of Twofold Bay. 

"Experiencing some sort of a temporal dissonance," he says, when Brett joins him at the window. 

A soft kiss to the side of his neck. "Over what?"

"Victorian values." He closes his eyes, tilts his head back to allow Brett better access. "All that repression. Upholding the imperial standard, or whatever bollocks they called it."

Brett chuckles. His hands bracket Eoin's hips. "You coming out as anti-imperialist?"

"Only because they'd have a problem with my general existence."

"Guess because your general existence is a source of moral decay. They take that sort of thing very seriously, you know."

Eoin can feel Brett smiling against his ear. He turns his head enough to kiss him properly. "You calling me a danger to polite society?"

Brett's eyes are hooded. "Among other things."

The bed turns out to be surprisingly sturdy, for something that looks as old as empire itself.

 

* * *

 

"In the winter you can see migrating humpbacks." Brett strokes his shoulder blades, hand ghosting down the curve of Eoin's spine. "They say that whale song drowns even the siren's call."

"That's fiction," Eoin mumbles into the pillow.

"You never heard of a whale?" Brett's voice is teasing.

Eoin kicks him under the sheets. "Sirens."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of myth."

"If you're a hopeless romantic."

"Nothing wrong with that either." Brett's arm settles warm and heavy across the small of his back. 

Eoin hums a vague agreement. "Didn't say there was."

Brett falls silent. Faintly creaking floors and distant ocean waves make for strangely soothing background noise. Eoin can hear his own heart beating, breathing evening out. Brett shifts beside him.

"But you don't believe in it," he says at length.

It takes Eoin a minute to remember that he has to answer out loud. "Not exactly."

"Can I ask why?"

Eoin yawns. "Doesn't seem all that important, does it? Plenty of better things to be doing or thinking about."

Brett turns over to lie on his back. "Seems pretty important to me."

"Go to sleep, Brett," Eoin murmurs, already most of the way there himself. 

The sheets are a little too warm when Brett draws them up to his chest, high enough to cover Eoin's shoulder blades. "Good night."

"Mm. Night."

 

* * *

 

The following day, they cross the border into Victoria. At Gipsy Point they board a motorboat, and Eoin counts the kangaroos grazing by the inlet. Birds flock over the waters and between the tangled trees. 

They walk through the banksia woodlands of Cape Conran, down to beaches wild with kelp and rock. A white-breasted sea eagle drifts overhead like a swift-moving cloud. Signs with arrows read, _CABIN FOR HIRE_. Eoin drags Brett away before he can suggest anything like actual camping.

They spend the night in Bairnsdale. Eoin wakes up alone in the lightening dark. He pulls on a t-shirt and pads outside into the blue dawn. Brett's sitting on the low stone wall in the courtyard, plucking a soft tune on the ukulele. Eoin listens for a bit, head fuzzy with half-remembered songs.

"Haven't heard that one before," he says, and watches Brett jump. The ukulele falls silent. 

Eoin walks over to sit with him. Brett clears his throat. "Morning."

"Sun's not even up yet." Eoin puts his head on Brett's shoulder, closes his eyes. "Why're you awake?"

"Dunno," comes the quiet answer. "Couldn't sleep."

"You morning people are ridiculous."

"Sorry."

A pause. Eoin lifts his head. Brett looks down at the ukulele. 

"What did I do?" Eoin asks.

Brett still won't meet his eyes. "Nothing."

Eoin looks out over the courtyard, past the edge of the building to the adjoining car park. "You really want to go camping, don't you?" he asks.

"What?"

"I wasn't mentally prepared." Eoin kicks his feet against the concrete ground. "But we can go next time."

"Next time?" Brett asks slowly, like he doesn't understand the phrase.

Eoin shrugs. "If you want."

No answer. He looks up and finds Brett watching him. False dawn plays tricks with shadows in the contours of his face, making it impossible to read. The sudden sickening feeling in his gut can't be homesickness, not when Brett is right here.

Eoin takes a deep breath. "Come back to bed." He stands, waits for Brett to follow.

Except Brett doesn't, just watches him. Too quiet. Too serious. "Eoin," he says, "what are we doing here, exactly?"

"I'm going back to sleep."

"I meant—" Brett pauses. "This whole week. You and me. When I asked you...did you..."

"Did I what?"

Brett looks down. His fingers shift over the ukulele strings, seeking some chord. Finally,

"Nothing. It's nothing. Sorry."

He stands suddenly and makes for the motel. Eoin blocks his path. Asks once more, "Did I _what_ , Brett?"

Brett's gripping the ukulele like it's a charm. A sign.

"Did you understand what I was asking you?"

The pause stretches forever. Brett watches the blue concrete turn dove pink and gold, as false dawn gives way to daybreak. There's no sound at all, until—

"You _idiot_." 

Brett looks up and gets an armful of Eoin, who's suddenly hugging him. The ukulele drops to the grass, the hollow breath knocked from his lungs.

"Did you think," Eoin whispers furiously, "I'd go on a road trip to the arse-end of nowhere with just _anyone_?"

Brett feels his arms tighten of their own accord. "You don't like romance," he manages. "I didn't want to assume."

"Which part of this," Eoin sounds caught between laughter and disbelief, "wasn't clear to you?"

Eoin kisses him. The haloed sun breaks finally over the curve of the land. Brett breathes for what feels like the first time in years, and kisses Eoin back.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the trip seems to go at double speed. There's not enough time in every day. Brett says it's because Eoin won't leave the bed in the mornings; Eoin asks him whose fault that is. 

Brett refuses to let Eoin leave Australia without seeing at least one dolphin, so they tour the Gippsland Lakes by boat. In Foster they visit markets and go horseback riding. The mare they hire for the afternoon takes a shine to Brett, which is just typical. 

Back in the car, the road now winds due west. They pass the pelicans of San Remo and cross the bridge to Phillip Island, where fairy penguins waddle ashore Summerland Beach at dusk. Countless muttonbirds dot the bluffs, and you can see every star in the sky.

Brett gets them lost twice in Melbourne before Eoin finally turns on the SatNav. _I'm going to miss my flight,_ is the winning argument when Brett protests that he knows where he's going. 

The anonymous airport feels surreal after a week of sun and open air. 

"I'll see you soon," Brett says outside the terminal.

Eoin shoulders his duffel bag, wondering when it suddenly grew heavier. He doesn't ask what _soon_ means, just nods. They'd already said goodbye that morning, if not in so many words. Brett doesn't press him for more. 

He watches the car pull away, blinkers signaling left. Around a corner. Out of sight.

 

* * *

 

In the waiting area he turns on his phone and lets it buzz through a week's worth of messages, emails, notifications. A missed call from his mother. Four messages from Graeme. Two from Steve, one an incomprehensible mess of letters, and the other, _sorry sat on my phone_.

A buzzing alerts him to a new message. Brett.

 _Safe travels_ , it reads. Then, _Check your photos_.

Eoin scrolls through them. At the end of the jumbled mess is a new video file — dated today. Eoin looks around. No one's paying him any attention, sat as he is in a corner by the potted plant. He digs out his earbuds and hits play.

It's too dark to make out anything at first. Then the angle changes a bit, enough to show Brett smiling at the camera. He's sitting in the car, the phone propped somewhere on the dash. 

"So the good thing about being a ridiculous morning person," Brett says, "is that I get time to plan things like this. Sorry for stealing your phone, but maybe you should think about using a better password than your old squad numbers."

He adjusts the phone again to reveal the ukulele in his hands. "I really hope you don't wake up early for once, as that'd ruin the surprise a bit. And I'd feel like even more of an idiot. But, y'know. Here goes."

A familiar chord progression rings out. " _Going back to the corner where I first saw you_..."

Eoin props his elbow on the armrest, hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Brett's voice is scratchy with sleep, and he's never going to be known for his falsetto. But still. Eoin can't think of a cover he'd prefer over this.

" _And if one day you wake up to find that you're missing me,_ " Brett looks right at the camera, eyes soft, " _You'll never have to wonder where on this earth I could be. 'Cause I know that you'll come back here to the place where we'd meet. And I will be waiting for you on the corner of this street._ "

The outtro fades to a sweet vibrato. Brett takes a small bow. "Not the original lyrics, of course. But I still like mine better." A pause. A smile. "And I hope you do, too."

The recording ends. 

Eoin looks up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to school his expression into some acceptable form of blank. He pulls up the text message from Brett, types:

_You're an idiot_

_and I love you_

He hits send.


End file.
